


Inescapable

by Bryonia_Alba



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 04:53:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10712589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bryonia_Alba/pseuds/Bryonia_Alba
Summary: Millicent had wanted to stay uninvolved in the war. Fate decreed otherwise.





	Inescapable

**Author's Note:**

> Written for hp_springsmut, 2007.

Pouring a cup of strong black coffee, Millicent settled into her favourite armchair and opened her copy of Theodora Scoggins’s latest novel, _The Scourgify Murders_ , to the opening page. Her cat, Samhain, jumped into her lap and curled up there, purring and kneading her thigh through her robes. The fire in the grate crackled pleasantly in comparison to the rain beating against the windowpanes. All in all, she couldn’t think of a more pleasant way to spend an evening.

Millicent Bulstrode was quite content, thank you very much. She had left school for good this past June, eighteen years old and glad to leave it all behind. She had moved into a snug house bequeathed to her by her maternal grandfather and settled into the role she most expected from life, that of crazy cat lady and spinster.

She didn’t miss Hogwarts at all. She didn’t miss the tension, the constantly shifting alliances within and between the four Houses. She didn’t miss the near-constant pressure to choose a side in the war raging outside the school’s walls, one that was still being waged somewhere out there.

They could have it. She had no strong feelings one way or the other. She couldn’t care less about Potter’s fight, much less care about the various fates of his friends, especially that smarmy know-it-all Granger. She cared even less about the other side, particularly after hearing what had happened to Draco Malfoy. She wanted nothing to do with anyone or anything capable of that sort of murderous brutality. Holding someone in a headlock was one thing, Millicent thought, recalling her memory of doing just that to Granger almost fondly. Flaying someone alive before leaving what remained to the werewolves was something else entirely.

Millicent was happy to stay on the sidelines. No, not even that. Staying on the sidelines suggested she was paying attention. They could have their war, she thought again, turning a page. However it ended, she had already found her place in the world.

The dogs began barking halfway through the second chapter, as Auror Heathcote and his partner Auror Wyndham examined the body of the first victim. Millicent glanced up from the novel, annoyed when they didn’t stop right away. She hated being interrupted in the middle of a good read. It was probably a fox, or a rabbit too stupid to take a hint and hop away from the kennel. Shrugging irritably, she shifted in the armchair, sipped coffee, and returned to her book.

When five minutes passed with no sign of the dogs quieting, she sighed and stood up, dislodging Samhain from her lap. The cat looked up at her, affronted, and stalked off, tail twitching. Marking her place, Millicent set down the book and went to the window.

The rain sheeting down the panes and the stormy night didn’t help. Millicent waited for the next flash of lightning, hoping she might see, even for a second, what was making the dogs so excited. 

Lightning flashed, and for the briefest moment she thought she saw something resembling a bundle of rags lying on the ground. Millicent frowned, as she felt quite certain it hadn’t been there when she’d fed the dogs earlier. She waited through the next couple of lightning strikes, ignoring Samhain when he began weaving around her ankles.

The bundle moved. Millicent nearly jumped out of her skin, not expecting such a thing to happen. Outside, the dogs renewed their yammering. She could see their shadowy forms leaping against the fence, trying to get to the intruder on their property.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered. Why did things like this only happen in the worst possible weather?

She nearly tripped over the cat as she pulled on her cloak and wellies, took out her wand, and cast _Impervius_ over everything. Lighting a lantern, she opened the door, wand at the ready in case the moving bundle of rags tried anything funny, and stepped outside.

Mud squelched beneath her boots as she strode across the yard, yelling at the dogs to shut up. They obeyed, whining, as Millicent approached the intruder. She paused, catching sight of a broken broomstick lying alongside the currently motionless person. Her fingers tightened around her wand. Defensive Charms had been her specialty whilst in school, and she had an entire array on her lips, ready to cast if her uninvited visitor so much as twitched the wrong way.

Gingerly, she nudged the bundle with the toe of one boot. It let out a soft groan, which told her only that whatever it was, it was human and male; but other than that it didn’t move.

“Here now,” she said, raising her voice so she’d be heard over the rain and thunder, “you can’t stay here. You’ll have to sleep it off somewhere else.” It wasn’t her fault if the idiot had got himself pissed and crashed his broomstick on her property. Served him right if he Splinched himself trying to Apparate home. “Come on, man, get out of here!”

The figure only moaned again when she nudged him a second time, not so gently. Millicent sighed, tempted to hex the fool with boils for putting her through this trouble, and rolled him onto his back before he did something really stupid like drown in a mud puddle before he had the opportunity to Splinch himself when he Apparated off her property so she could get back inside and resume reading her novel.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the intruder’s face, and Millicent let out a startled gasp. She _knew_ this person; and he wasn’t the sort to drink himself to the point of oblivion, much less ride a broom whilst intoxicated. Dropping to her knees, she tucked her wand between her teeth and scraped back the man’s sodden hair with her hand to make sure he was who she thought he was.

He was.

Lowering her hand to his shoulder, she gave him a shake. “Wake up, you stupid Gryffindor!” she yelled. “You’ll catch your death out here!”

He remained unmoving, eyes closed, his face streaked with mud and ---

Belatedly, Millicent realised that though the man’s robes were soaking wet, it wasn’t just from water. The fabric under her fingers was too warm and sticky to be water. She held up her hand, disbelieving, as the falling rain mixed with the blood on her palm, and cursed.

All Millicent had wanted was to stay out of the war.

Fate had decreed the war come to her, in the unconscious, bloodied form of Neville Longbottom.

~~**~~

Millicent Apparated into the bathroom, her arms wrapped around Longbottom’s limp body. Removing the wand still clenched between her teeth, she turned on the shower tap with a wave and dragged the both of them under the hot, stinging spray fully dressed. Longbottom sagged against the tiles, knees buckling. Millicent eased him down the rest of the way, took a breath, and began stripping off his muddy robes to find the source of the bleeding.

A long slash, still oozing, stretched from Longbottom’s left shoulder, ending just above his right hip. He’d lost a lot of blood; the wound was deep. He was damned lucky he hadn’t got himself eviscerated, she thought grimly. Millicent managed to get him undressed, leaving him only in his y-fronts. The material was thin cotton, the water moulding it to his genitals. Millicent averted her gaze, unable to prevent a blush even as she sluiced hot water over the rest of him, washing away mud and dried blood and cleaning the dreadful-looking wound as best she could. 

It was the closest she’d ever been to another man, never mind that this was probably the least intimate situation she could imagine for such, well, intimacy. Longbottom had nice broad shoulders and an equally broad chest, though he was more than a bit soft through the middle. Too many Chocolate Frogs, she supposed.

And what was she doing staring at his nearly naked body anyway? She could look at more chiselled physiques anytime she wanted in the latest issue of _Playwitch_ , not that she often did, but that wasn’t the point.

Shutting off the shower, Millicent performed Drying Charms on them both before lifting Longbottom off the floor with a muttered _Mobilicorpus_. He floated limply behind her into the guest bedroom, where she got him settled onto the bed. His clothing, stained as they were with mud and blood, was a lost cause, so she found a pair of pyjama trousers and managed to get them on his unresisting body without reopening the wound on his torso.

He didn’t look as though he’d be waking anytime soon. Millicent fetched salve, Sanguinis potion, and clean bandages from the medicine chest. Trying not to think too much about what she was doing, she performed what rudimentary Healing spells she remembered from school to close the gash, smeared liberal amounts of the dittany-based salve over the wound, covered it with bandages, and taped the edges with Spellotape. She managed to get him to choke down a swallow of the blood-replenishing Sanguinis potion, covered him from the waist down with an extra quilt, and left him to rest.

Longbottom had yet to open his eyes or say a single word to her, and she already wanted him gone. Unfortunately, the only people she could think of off the top of her head that might be willing to take him were most likely Death Eaters; and, while he was most definitely an annoyance, he hadn’t done anything to deserve certain death, either. Given his accident-prone reputation, Millicent hoped he was a fast healer.

Her coffee had long since grown cold by the time she returned to her armchair, and the fire had burned down to glowing embers. Samhain was curled up on her book, tail over his nose. Millicent thought about going to bed, as her plans for the evening had been well and thoroughly dashed by Longbottom’s arrival.

She couldn’t do it. Waking in a strange place had always disconcerted her. She could only imagine what thoughts would go through Longbottom’s mind when he woke. She wondered what had compelled him to attempt flying through a thunderstorm, at night, on a broom; when everyone at school had known he hated flying.

Sighing at the stupidity of Gryffindors, Millicent retrieved her book from her cat’s clutches and went back to the guest room. Fortunately, the armchair in there was almost as comfortable as the one where she’d intended to spend the evening. Glaring at Longbottom’s supine form, she wrapped herself in another quilt, opened her book, and resumed reading about the latest adventures of Aurors Heathcote and Wyndham.

He was awake when she next opened her eyes, stiff and aching from her awkward position in the armchair, which was fine for reading, not spending the night. She saw the shock of recognition in his brown eyes as he struggled to sit up.

“That’s enough of that,” Millicent said gruffly, leaving her chair and easing Longbottom back against the pillows. He looked up at her, his expression warring between terror, complete bafflement, and embarrassment as he realised he was only half-dressed.

“Bulstrode?” he said weakly. “How did I…? What happened?”

“I could ask you the same thing, since you’re the one who crashed their broomstick on my property.”

“Sorry,” Longbottom said, sounding like a man who apologised entirely too often. “How long have I been out?”

“Long enough to bleed all over my bathroom and seriously crimp my evening plans.” 

She’d intended the remark to be a wry attempt at humour, but Longbottom reddened. “Sorry,” he muttered again. “If you’ll bring me my clothes I’ll be on my way.”

He was serious, Millicent realised as he tried again to sit up, wincing in pain as the bandages pulled at the wound on his torso.

“You’re not going anywhere until you’ve healed a bit,” she said, surprising herself nearly as much as she did Longbottom. Laying a hand on one shoulder, she pushed him back into the bed. “And before you ask, I’m not a Death Eater. Not everyone in Slytherin joined You Know Who, contrary to popular opinion.”

“That’s always good to know,” Longbottom said dryly, and Millicent felt her lips twitch in a small smile. “There’s no sense in fixing me up if you’re only going to kill me later.”

He still looked entirely too pale; and Millicent retrieved the bottle of Sanguinis potion from the bedside cabinet. Uncorking it, she poured some into the glass sitting atop the bedside cabinet and held it to his lips.

“Blood-replenishing potion,” she said, seeing his suspicion. “I took some myself last month when I sliced my hand open while chopping onions. Almost made me wish I’d used cooking spells instead.” When the suspicion in his eyes didn’t lessen, she drank a small swallow to prove she wasn’t attempting to poison him. He relaxed slightly when she didn’t choke, turn black, or drop dead, and took the dose she’d poured without complaint before letting his head fall back onto the pillow. His eyes slid shut again, then opened slowly, focusing on her.

“I’ll try to recover as fast as possible,” he said, again flashing the dry sort of wit she’d always appreciated most. “I know you don’t want me here.”

“I’m going to hold you to that, you know,” she replied, and Longbottom gave her a tired smile before slipping back into an exhausted sleep.

~~**~~

Longbottom steadily improved over the next twenty-four hours. Millicent changed the bandages on his chest when needed, reapplying dittany salve each time and checking for infection. She dosed him with Sanguinis potion until his colour was back to normal and made certain he ate to maintain his strength.

Longbottom was proving to be a model patient. Millicent remembered all the times in school she had to listen to Crabbe or Goyle whinge and complain whenever they fell ill, or Malfoy’s dramatics if he suffered so much as a parchment cut knowing Parkinson would attend to him hand and foot. Longbottom rarely asked for anything, tried to do as much for himself as possible, and thanked Millicent for everything she did. He spent a great deal of time that first day either sleeping, or reading one of the novels Millicent loaned him while stroking her traitorous cat Samhain, who had apparently taken a liking to this new person and now slept curled up beside him at every opportunity.

Millicent began taking meals with him on the second day. She did it to be polite, she told herself as she brought in a tray just before noon. She didn’t have to be rude. It wasn’t as though Longbottom had intentionally crash-landed on her lawn.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, setting down the tray and helping him sit.

“Sore,” he replied after a moment, shifting gingerly on the bed. “Stiff. What’s on the tray? It smells good.”

Uncovering it, she revealed a veritable feast of delicacies. “When was the last time you had a proper English breakfast, Longbottom? I’m thinking it’s been awhile if you’re flying about getting hexed by people who want you dead.”

He paused in the act of picking up his fork. “It’s been awhile. Did you really make all of this without any cooking spells?”

“I did.” Millicent recognised the sound of someone not willing to open up just yet, but couldn’t restrain the note of pride in her voice despite his transparent change of topic. “I like to cook. I like trying new recipes. You can’t do that with spells. Well, you can, but it’s not the same. It’s…it’s like the difference between using fresh herbs compared to dried. They’re both good, but the dish with the fresh herbs tastes better, somehow. Would you like coffee or tea? I wasn’t sure so I made both.”

He smiled at her enthusiasm, and she ducked her head, embarrassed. Her housemates in Slytherin had never been able to understand her passion for the culinary arts. Most of them considered cooking to be something worthy only of house elves. Malfoy in particular had made several cutting remarks regarding her choice of hobby.

“You sound like me whenever I talk about gardening,” Longbottom said wistfully. “I haven’t had the chance to be around plants since...” He caught himself and shrugged. “I miss it. Oh, and I like tea, with both milk and honey.”

Oh well, nobody was perfect. “It’s Earl Grey,” she said as she poured tea for him and good black coffee for herself. “If you’re an English Breakfast sort, Longbottom, you’re out of luck.” 

“I like Earl Grey,” he said, accepting the tea and adding milk and honey to taste. “And if you’re going to change bandages and make breakfast from scratch, I wish you’d call me Neville.”

Millicent hid her surprise at the friendly gesture, but just barely. She’d heard he was a nice enough bloke from others, but the fact remained that he was Gryffindor, and she was Slytherin and not a very open one at that.

“All right…Neville,” she said, tasting the syllables and finding them not unpleasant. “Just don’t call me Millie. I _hate_ Millie.”

That night Millicent found herself lying in bed with her hand between her legs, fingering herself to climax to the mental image of Neville’s nearly naked body as she’d seen it in the shower, minus the blood and dirt. She tried to imagine what his cock looked like without the cover of thin wet cotton, wondered what it would feel like in her hands.

She wondered what it might be like to have him inside of her, his weight above her, and her body shattered in waves of pleasure as she came, biting her lip to keep from being heard.

It would never happen, she knew as she drifted into sleep. Neville might be somewhat plump around the middle, but he was pleasant enough to look at, compared to her own long nose and lantern jaw and coarse black hair. Her large frame would never become petite or delicate no matter how much she dieted. She was plain, she had always been plain, and she would be plain until the day she died. She knew that, and any fantasies of love or marriage had died long ago.

She could look, though, and admire, and take pleasure in it. No amount of plainness on her part could change that. 

~~**~~

The following day she allowed Neville out of bed, but only as far as the sitting room. She unearthed a dressing gown in another guestroom for him to wear while he was up and about. The sight of so much bared chest, even covered in bandages, left her feeling flustered, especially when she thought of what she’d done the previous night. He seemed completely unaware of her distraction, thanking her with complete sincerity as he carefully slipped his arms into the sleeves.

“Do you play Wizard’s chess?” she asked, holding his breakfast tray while he settled gingerly into a chair. “I have a set.”

“I can play, but I’m not any good,” he answered. “Ron was the best chess player in my House. I can play a mean game of Exploding Snap, though.”

They spent the rest of the morning playing both games. Millicent won both chess matches, though Neville wasn’t nearly as awful as he’d claimed. He did, however, beat her soundly at Exploding Snap, proving his earlier boast.

“Do you remember back in fifth year?” Neville asked, watching Millicent shuffle the cards for another game. “Umbridge and the Inquisitorial Squad?”

Millicent looked up, riffling the cards in her hands one last time before starting to deal the latest hand. “How could I forget? I was in it.”

“Why? Surely you didn’t believe in her or her decrees.” Neville looked at the cards in his hand, his expression impassive though he sounded genuinely curious. “Not to mention her teaching methods.”

“She wasn’t the best Defence professor we ever had,” she agreed dryly. “She promised us passing marks if we joined. That, and power. When you’re fifteen years old, the thought of being able to deduct House points from some Hufflepuff first year just because they looked at you the wrong way was…” She paused, thinking. She’d deducted a _lot_ of points from anyone she overheard talking about her. “It was my way of getting back at people, I guess. Nobody told us about Potter’s group until it was formed and well under way. Why did you join Dumbledore’s Army?”

“Because Umbridge wasn’t teaching any of us defensive spells, and Harry said he would.” Neville shrugged. “He was a good teacher. I passed my O.W.L. that year. I probably wouldn’t have, otherwise. Would you have joined if you’d known? Or would you have gone to her and tattled?”

Millicent thought about it before shaking her head. “I don’t know. I think I might have surprised everyone and joined, just to prove not every Slytherin was a Death Eater in training.” She looked up from her own cards. “None of you would have trusted me if I’d joined. Nothing I would have done would have been good enough. I think maybe that was why I joined the Inquisitorial Squad. Umbridge was the only one who trusted us.” She sighed. “Even if it was for the wrong reasons. Can we talk about something else?”

Neville laid out his first card. “You mentioned something about wanting to put in a kitchen herb plot next spring. What plants did you have in mind?”

Once again, he’d turned the topic back to her. Millicent admired his ability to detract attention away from himself. Her years at Hogwarts might have been happier ones if she’d had that skill.

“I haven’t really given it much thought yet,” she replied. “More tea?”

Millicent would never admit it aloud, but she enjoyed fussing over him, more than she’d ever believed possible. Neville was surprisingly enjoyable company, agreeable if still more than a little reticent about his personal business. Every time Millicent asked a question, it seemed the subject always came back to her in some shape or form, unless she asked about anything related to gardening or Herbology. He spoke about plants and their properties with the same passion Millicent did about cooking, his round face and dark eyes shining with enthusiasm.

He’d make some lucky witch very happy. The thought made Millicent’s chest ache. It was time to prepare for his eventual departure, before he wormed further into her affections and she began liking him even more than she already did.

Why did he have to be so damned _nice_?

~~**~~

Millicent’s mother invited herself to tea that afternoon; and, true to form, she brought a guest in her undying hope of somehow creating a love match. Millicent ended the Floo call resigned to an afternoon of stilted conversation and awkward silences. It was probably just as well that Neville was upstairs sleeping, as she had no desire to explain his presence to her conservative, deeply traditional mother, especially when she still couldn’t quite explain his continued presence to herself.

“Mr Warrington found this lying on the lawn, Millie,” Mrs Bulstrode said as they entered the house, waving a hand at the broom her companion held. “You remember Chet Warrington, don’t you? He played Quidditch whilst at Hogwarts; perhaps you watched some of his matches?”

“I watched all of Slytherin’s matches, of course,” Millicent replied, closing the door behind her and leading them into the parlour. “Everyone did.”

“That must have been quite the game of pick-up Quidditch,” Warrington remarked, examining the broomstick. It had cracked along the length from the force of Neville’s landing, the handle stained dark with blood. “I don’t recall you ever playing in school.”

“I didn’t,” Millicent replied, her voice and hands steady as she poured tea for everyone. “I like to fly on occasion, though I’m not very good at it. My grip on the handle slipped and it came up and thwacked me. Bloodied my nose, too; I’m damned – forgive me, Mother – I’m quite lucky I didn’t break it as well. The swelling only just today went down completely, else I would have looked a complete fright.”

“Oh, _Millie_ ,” her mother sighed. Beside her, Warrington quirked an eyebrow, his fingers still rubbing over the broom’s splintered wood.

Millicent gave them both her brightest smile and indicated the tea tray. “Would you like a sandwich? I have cucumber and cream cheese, or chicken and mayonnaise.”

The next couple of hours passed with painful attempts at small talk. Millicent tried to ignore every sound that might mean that Neville was stirring from his nap while her mother desperately tried to fill in the conversational gaps with tales of Millicent’s girlhood, her skills at running a household, all the while mentioning genealogy and bloodlines so many times Millicent wondered whether her mother was trying to sell Warrington a particularly fine Abraxan mare rather than an unmarriageable daughter. Nibbling at a cucumber sandwich, she listened to her mother and counted the minutes as they ticked past.

She was grateful when Warrington called an end to the excruciating afternoon, claiming he had an appointment elsewhere he couldn’t miss. Millicent gave him a grateful, genuine smile, trying to show him and her mother the door in a manner that didn’t appear overeager.

“I have a friend who could probably repair that broom,” Warrington said, turning to her just as Millicent was beginning to relax and believe they were both well and truly leaving. “Would you mind greatly if I brought it with me? He can look it over and see whether or not it can be salvaged, and I can bring it back once he’s made an assessment.”

Millicent swallowed a sigh when her mother, standing behind Warrington, urged her with fluttering hands and quick, jerky nods to accept the offer. “That’s very kind of you,” she said, resisting the urge to simper for effect. “I’d be most pleased to accept your gracious offer.”

Her mother beamed. Warrington grinned in a manner Millicent supposed was meant to be charming but only managed to look unctuous as they finally said their final farewells and departed, broomstick and all.

Millicent went upstairs the instant Mrs Bulstrode and Warrington were gone, hoping Neville had awakened from his nap. She felt in desperate need of intelligent conversation.

~~**~~

“I probably should have brought this up long before now,” Millicent said that evening, bringing him a steaming bowl of soup full of vegetables, beef, and garlic. She’d decided that unless Neville asked specifically, she wouldn’t mention her mother and Warrington’s visit. Neville had yet to ask for his broom; and Millicent had the distinct impression he would never ask. “I imagine there are people wondering where you’re hiding yourself. Now that you’re on the mend, do you want to send a message to anyone? You can use my owl.”

“You’ve done so much already,” Neville answered, taking the soup. “I’ll never be able to repay you properly.”

She sat down across from him in the other chair. “Actually, Lilith will be glad for the exercise,” she said, watching closely as he dutifully spooned soup into his mouth. “I don’t correspond with a lot of people. Surely somebody’s wondering whether or not you’re still alive.”

Neville nodded after a moment, but didn’t elaborate. “If you’re sure it’s not too much trouble.”

“Compared to crashing a broomstick onto someone’s property while doing their utmost to bleed to death?” Millicent smiled to show she was joking. Neville had a disturbing way of taking things to heart if they seemed even remotely derogatory. “Don’t you dare apologise. And if it was too much trouble, I wouldn’t have offered.”

“Sor— Um.” Neville began before catching himself. “Yes, there are one or two people who might like to know I’m okay.”

“I’ll get some parchment and ink, then.” Millicent stood. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Neville wrote his letters, and Millicent sent them with Lilith. Watching the owl disappear in the distance, it occurred to her that Neville really would be leaving soon now, once he felt up to the task. It was what she’d wanted from the first. She’d see him on his way, and everything would return to normal. 

It was what she wanted.

Wasn’t it?

~~**~~

The gash on Neville’s chest was healing cleanly so far, without any sign of infection. He’d carry the scar the rest of his life, but at least he still had one to live. 

Millicent finally succeeded in finding some proper clothing for Neville in the attic, as his own were hopelessly beyond repair. They were slightly old-fashioned and smelt of mothballs, but she thought they would fit him well enough once they’d been thoroughly washed with Mrs Skower’s Laundering Soap to remove the lingering odour.

Lilith returned as she rinsed away the last of the soap. There were no return notes attached, which surprised Millicent, but Neville looked as if he’d expected the lack of response.

“Safer that way,” he said. “I probably should go within the next day or so. Safer for you if no one knows I’ve been here. D’you think I’ve healed enough to Apparate?”

_No_ , Millicent wanted to say. 

“Is there any soreness when you move or stretch?” she asked instead. “Any pulling sensation?”

“Only a little,” Neville admitted. “It shouldn’t be a problem, though…”

Millicent shook her head. “I don’t want to risk it. I’ve spent too much effort patching you back together to see you get Splinched because you were in too much of a hurry to leave to wherever you’re going.”

Neville gave her a strange, almost disbelieving look. “It almost sounds as if you _want_ me to stay.”

“If you want dry clothes, you’ll stay. And I’ve already set out a roast for dinner tonight. You’ll stay for dinner at least?” Millicent hefted the wet robes in her arms, fighting a sudden, ridiculous urge to bat her eyelashes coquettishly. What had come over her? Neville had more important things to do than stay and sit through dinner while enduring her company for yet another evening.

Looking down at the dressing gown and pyjama bottoms he wore, Neville chuckled slightly and said, “Decent clothes would be nice. Okay, I’ll stay for dinner.”

~~**~~

Millicent made her best roast ever that night, slow-cooking the cut of beef with onions, potatoes and carrots and preparing a red wine sauce to accompany the dish, followed by an apple and plum crumble with custard for pudding. She ate as slowly as possible, urging Neville to have seconds on everything, trying to prolong the inevitable as long as she could.

“No, honestly, if I eat another bite I’ll explode,” Neville said at last, pushing away the dessert plate. Rising from the table, he came around to where Millicent sat. She looked up at him, resigned.

“Tell me you won’t get yourself nearly killed again anytime soon.” Her voice didn’t waver, thank Salazar. 

“I couldn’t avoid it last time,” Neville answered, “but I’ll try. I don’t know how I’m going to repay you for everything you’ve done. You probably saved my life the other night. Saying thank you doesn’t seem enough.”

Millicent pasted a smile on her face. “You can come back when you’ve finished doing…whatever it is you’re doing, and help plan that kitchen plot with me. Maybe you can tell me how I can keep the basil from dying. I’m pants at growing basil.”

“It’s a deal.” Neville bent over her, his lips brushing her cheek.

_Oh, sod it._ She might never have a chance like this again.

Millicent turned her head slightly, so that his mouth touched hers. She felt him stiffen in surprise as she reached up, fingers tangling in his hair so he couldn’t escape, and kissed him in a manner that was anything but platonic.

His eyes were wide and dazed when she finally let him go. His mouth opened but nothing came out. He looked more than a little gobsmacked at being kissed, however inexpertly. Millicent took a breath, knowing she had just done something colossally stupid, and tried to apologise before matters could get any more uncomfortable between them. 

“I…”

“Don’t,” Neville said, and then his mouth was on hers again. There was nothing platonic about the kiss this time, either. It was possessive, demanding, and Millicent felt herself melt from its heat. Parting her lips beneath his, she moaned deep within her throat and threw both arms around his neck. Neville’s arms wrapped tightly around her waist, lifting her from her chair, nearly jerking her onto her toes in his ardour, his groan audible as her tongue slipped between his lips. He tasted like spiced wine and kitchen herbs, just as Millicent had imagined. 

Her fingernails gripped his shoulders, her entire body throbbing with unchecked desire. There were so many reasons why she shouldn’t be doing this, a hundred reasons, a thousand; but Millicent didn’t listen. Instead, she returned his kisses with vigour, wanting to rid herself of the clothing separating them and have him take her right there on the table. She wanted him inside of her, filling her, filling something that had been missing for far too long.

Neville murmured her name, crushing her lips against his again. His hands slid down from her waist to cup her arse through her robes.

“Bedroom,” Millicent demanded breathlessly against his lips. Neville opened his eyes and looked at her; and for a moment she feared he’d come to his senses and stop. His gaze fell to her lips and he leaned forward to kiss her again before she pulled him away from the table, stumbling slightly in her haste.

Somehow, they managed to fumble their way upstairs to Millicent’s bedroom, panting and trying to touch everything and everywhere at once. Neville kicked the door open with his foot, and the next thing Millicent knew she was falling backward onto the bed, tugging at Neville’s clothing as he leaned over her and pulled at hers. She managed to get his shirt unbuttoned and stripped away, tossing it onto the floor beside the bed.

She froze when he began unfastening her robes, suddenly self-conscious as she realised she hadn’t dimmed the lights. “You don’t want to see me,” she breathed, afraid it would end before it ever began. “I’m not…”

“It’s okay,” Neville whispered, fingers still struggling to undo the clasps. “I _like_ curves.”

“Oh.” Slowly, Millicent lifted her arms so Neville could pull the robes up and over her head. She heard his breath catch, saw his gaze darken in unfeigned desire as he removed her bra and just looked at her. She blushed, hands moving to cover her breasts. He caught her wrists in a gentle, yet implacable grip, shaking his head.

“Don’t,” he said again, just before sliding his mouth over hers.

His tongue left a hot, wet trail as it made its way down her neck to her collarbone. She lifted her hips, pressing them against his before he released her wrists to cup one large, heavy breast in his hand and pulled the nipple between his lips. Millicent gasped at the intensity, sensation rioting throughout her body as she writhed beneath him. His other hand covered her other breast, tweaking the nipple into a taut point.

“Neville, please,” Millicent pleaded breathlessly, desperate for something she couldn’t name, much less describe as she reached down, tugging at his trousers. “Please, Neville.”

It only took a few seconds, but it felt like forever as he drew back long enough to remove his trousers. Millicent couldn’t resist sneaking a glance at his naked body, her cheeks reddening at the sight. He was beautiful, all broad shoulders and broad chest and surprisingly narrow hips despite the extra padding around his stomach and waist. He looked back at her, suddenly shy as they stared at each other. 

Stomach fluttering nervously, Millicent hooked her fingers through her knickers and pulled them down, leaving herself fully open and exposed to his gaze, studying his face for the slightest flicker of revulsion or disgust.

“Millicent, you’re beautiful.” Neville’s voice was hoarse as he crawled over her again and leaned down to kiss her. Millicent spread her thighs, making room for him to settle between them. The space between her legs pulsated with unsatisfied need.

“Neville,” she moaned, her neck arching when his tongue slid over the skin and his mouth latched onto her. She felt his cock against her thigh, hot and hard and heavy as their bodies, already overheated and sheened with sweat, rubbed together.

“Now?” he asked, sounding as breathless and wanting as she felt.

Millicent nodded, and a moment later felt him push inside her. She felt her body stretch to accommodate him, saw his eyes widen as he pressed against unexpected resistance.

“Is this…?” For the first time she heard a thread of uncertainty in his voice. His entire body trembled as he fought against the urge to proceed. “Why didn’t you…say something?”

“Go on,” she whispered. “I want you to. It’s all right.”

Groaning at her permission, he thrust hard, burying himself deep inside. Millicent bit her lip but couldn’t keep a cry from escaping at the brief, tearing pain.

“I’m sorry,” Neville panted, still struggling not to move while she got used to the feel of him inside her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to hurt…”

“Don’t you dare apologise,” Millicent said. She tightened around him, experimenting, and was rewarded by a deep groan as Neville shuddered above her, fighting to maintain control. “It’s okay.”

Neville began to move, slowly at first, carefully, as though he feared Millicent might shatter from rougher treatment. The idea was laughable yet endearing. She had never been treated as something delicate or precious before, and the fact that Neville tried to do so now made her eyes prickle.

“Harder,” she urged, lifting her hips in invitation. “I won’t break, I promise.”

She cried out again when he complied, this time in pleasure. He thrust into her fast and hard, bracing himself on both arms above her, eyes closed in fierce concentration. Millicent wrapped her legs around him, heels digging into his arse, drawing him as deeply into her as she possibly could.

Neville shifted, one hand working between their straining bodies to touch her swollen centre, stroking it with his fingers in time to his thrusts. Millicent chanted his name, gasping for breath, her body filled with a delicious tension as he drew her closer, closer….She moaned loudly as she came, her orgasm nearly painful as it surged through her body, making her toes curl and her fingernails dig into Neville’s shoulderblades.

Neville threw his head back, growling Millicent’s name. His thrusts became shorter, more erratic until he shuddered and came, burying his face in the crook of her shoulder. Millicent held him until his tremors subsided, stroking his hair. 

She didn’t want to let go. He felt safe and warm and comfortable, inside and out. She had no choice but to let go. Reluctantly, she felt him draw away, pulling out of her body. He brushed his fingers over her cheek and kissed the tip of her nose, making her giggle and Neville jump at the unexpected sound.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “If I’d known…”

“I wanted to.” Millicent sat up in bed, watching as he rolled away and began to dress. “Don’t regret it. I don’t. Now go on, do what you must.”

He finished dressing and turned to look at her. He looked sad, almost lost. “I, um…” he said finally. “I’ll owl you. When, you know. When I’m safe.” He looked down at his shoes and back up again, meeting her eyes.

“I’m going to hold you to that, you know,” she said, voice shaking.

“Thanks again,” he said softly. “For, um, for everything. I owe you.”

He disappeared with a loud _crack_. 

~~**~~

The house seemed even more quiet than usual after Neville left. Millicent eventually slept and rose the next morning from bed and showered, soaping and rinsing herself slowly, hands sliding over her skin while remembering the night before, wishing the soap-slick fingers moving over her body was Neville’s rather than her own. Other than a slight soreness between her legs, she didn’t feel any different for having just lost her virginity. Stepping from the shower, she dried off and pulled on fresh robes.

Pragmatism, she decided while changing the sheets on the bed, was the best course to take. Men lied all the time. He wouldn’t be any different. She had done quite well for herself before Neville came, and she would continue to do quite well for herself now that he was gone. Mooning over him wouldn’t bring him back. He probably wasn’t going to come back anyway, despite his words to the contrary. 

She’d just sat down to a late dinner of leftover roast, slathered with spicy mustard and sandwiched between some good rye bread when the dogs began baying outside. Someone knocked at the door a moment later.

“Neville,” she whispered, hastily setting down her serviette and rising from her chair. “Samhain, leave my sandwich alone.” The cat blinked.

She paused before the foyer mirror, patting a few loose strands of black hair back into place, pursing her lips together to bring some colour into them. A small part of her laughed at this attempt to improve her appearance, when prettifying herself for anyone had always until now been the furthest thing from her mind. 

Satisfied that her lips were as pink as they were going to get, Millicent went to the door and opened it. “You…” she began.

Two figures draped in black and wearing masks pushed past her into the house, wands raised. Millicent had just enough time to say, “What the _hell_ …?” before she found herself pinned against the nearest wall, unable to move anything but her head.

“Check every room. If he’s still here we’ll find him,” one of the masked figures said in a decidedly feminine tone. She turned toward Millicent, lips curving in a cold smile beneath the mask. “Or you could tell me and make things ever so much easier for all of us.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Millicent said coldly.

She knew, though. She knew, and hoped that Neville was safely back with his friends.

The woman tsked. “Being a blood traitor is abomination enough to my Lord. Aiding a blood traitor is even worse.” Her voice rose to a near-shriek. “ _Where is he_?”

Millicent glared at the Death Eater. “I still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. There’s no one here but me. No one’s been here, I haven’t seen anyone, and I’ll thank you to let me down and get out of my house.”

“Oh, does the wittle girl want to play games?” the woman asked, taking a mincing step forward. Long, thin fingers gripped Millicent’s chin. “I like games.”

“I’m sure you do,” Millicent replied, her throat dry. 

The second Death Eater returned, carrying what appeared to be a filthy bundle of rags. “I found this in the rubbish pile out back of the house,” he said. Millicent’s head jerked up in recognition. He caught sight of her, still pinned against the wall, and smiled. “Millie! So nice to see you again. You really ought to do a better job of keeping up your lawn maintenance.”

“Warrington, you fucking bastard,” Millicent spat. If she hadn’t been stuck to the wall, she would have lunged at him. “Is your ladyfriend that _expert_ in broomstick repair you told me about?” 

Warrington smirked. “I knew you were lying to me the other day when you told me and your own dear, sweet mother that the blood on the broomstick was yours from a flying mishap; but it gave me the perfect excuse to ask if I could take it with me when I left. Tell me, Bulstrode, was Longbottom hiding in a cupboard while we had tea the other day? It couldn’t have been comfortable for him.”

“We know he’s here,” the woman said, her voice as the cold as the ice rapidly forming in Millicent’s stomach. “All I want is for you to tell me where you’re hiding him. Warrington, look upstairs. Perhaps he’s under one of the beds. Perhaps he’s under yours?”

“Who are you?” Millicent figured it couldn’t hurt to ask, since her remaining time on earth could probably be counted in hours, if not minutes. “Why do you want to – to find Longbottom, anyway? I thought it was Potter you all wanted dead.”

“His turn will come,” the woman said, lifting the mask from her face once Warrington had left the room. “My Lord has decreed it. However, he also said that Longbottom is mine for wronging me.” 

Millicent didn’t say anything. She’d recognised Warrington from his voice, and everyone in the Wizarding world knew what Bellatrix Lestrange looked like after years of Wanted posters plastered on every available surface in Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley. If Bellatrix was willing to remove her mask, it couldn’t bode well for her own survival.

Lestrange’s face contorted in rage at Millicent’s silence. “He killed my husband!” she screamed, spittle flying from her lips in a fine spray. She shoved her wand under Millicent’s chin, the point pressing painfully. “I want him _dead_! Tell me where he’s hiding!”

“I don’t know.”

Bellatrix’s eyes narrowed. “So be it. We’ll do this the hard way. _Crucio_!”

Agony flooded through Millicent, pain worse than she’d ever known or had ever thought existed. It was like roasting over a slow flame, boiling in oil, and being doused in corrosive acid, all at the same time. It went on and on; and Millicent writhed against the wall screaming and sobbing, unable to escape.

The pain stopped. She felt a hand cup her cheek, heard a gentle voice ask solicitously, “Where is he?”

“I…don’t…”

Millicent didn’t get to finish the sentence. The pain came back, even worse than before, if possible. Her shrieks reverberated around the room, around her mind; her vision filled with black spots and a brilliant flash of red…

She crumpled onto the floor, aching in every muscle, breathing in great whooping gasps of air. She wondered why the pain was gone, wondered why she was lying on the floor. She wasn’t supposed to be on the floor, she thought dimly. She needed to sit up.

Slowly, she braced her palms against the floor and pushed, pulling herself onto her hands and knees. Lifting her head, she blinked, her mind working through the lingering pain to try and make sense of her surroundings.

Bellatrix lay beside her, unconscious and mysteriously bound in thin ropes from shoulders to knees. Her wand lay nearby. _Stupefy_ , Millicent thought, remembering the flash of red in her vision. She could hear sounds of struggle from upstairs, loud thumps and crashes. Stifling a groan, she picked up Lestrange’s wand and stood, wavering, holding the wand in her fist.

There was a final thump, and silence. Millicent drew herself up, waiting for the victor to come downstairs. If it was Warrington, she was going to hex him into jelly. If it wasn’t Warrington…well, whoever it was might still get hexed into jelly. She was furious enough to do it.

One of the stairs creaked, and she lifted the borrowed wand, her first spell on her lips.

“Millicent?”

She gasped, lowering the wand in stunned amazement. “ _Neville_?”

Neville’s footsteps made a thundering noise as he hurried the rest of the way down the stairs. He burst into the room, his own wand raised. Blood streamed from his nose and one hand was pressed against his side where his earlier wound had reopened; but his eyes blazed with fear and fury in his white face. 

“You’re all right?” he asked. 

She nodded. “You’re bleeding again.”

Neville winced. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Millicent said, and fainted for the first time in her life.

~~**~~

Lestrange and Warrington were gone, taken by Aurors. Neville had been treated for a broken nose, and the partially reopened gash on his torso had been Healed a second time, leaving a pale white scar. They had wanted to take Millicent to St Mungo’s for observation, but she’d refused. She still ached all over, but she’d insisted it was nothing a hot bath and a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure.

She sat in her favourite armchair, Samhain curled up in her lap, a cup of tea in her hands. She would have preferred coffee, but Neville had been so attentive since the Aurors had finished their endless questions and departed that she couldn’t complain.

“Is it true?” she asked quietly, watching as Neville poured a second cup for himself. “About Lestrange’s husband?”

He nodded jerkily. “I didn’t mean to. I was supposed to meet someone, and he showed up instead. We duelled. He cast _Sectumsempra_ the same time I cast a Jellylegs Jinx. He…he hit his head when he fell. I could hear reinforcements coming, but I was in too much pain to Apparate, so I stole a broom and left. I…” He looked at her. “I don’t regret it, though. Killing him and Stunning Bellatrix…stopping her from hurting you or anyone else ever again…I don’t regret it.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t.” She’d heard what they had done to Neville’s parents back in fifth year like everyone else. “I probably wouldn’t either.”

“Your mother’s asked me round for tea, you know,” Neville said. Mrs Bulstrode had nearly hyperventilated when she’d dropped in unannounced and discovered what had happened.

Millicent chuckled. “She likes you. She’s hoping you’ll take me off her hands and make me into a proper wife. Promise me you’ll let her down gently.”

Neville blinked at her over the rim of his teacup. “Why would I do that?”

“Oh, come on! Look at me! Do I look like wife material to you?” she demanded. “I hate dressing up and social functions, I look ridiculous in pink and lavender, and I’m too stubborn to let some man have his way simply because he had the good fortune to be born with a cock. I speak my mind, I do things my way, and I like spending time alone.”

Neville didn’t respond, drinking his tea while Millicent fumed. Samhain leapt down from her lap and jumped into his, which didn’t improve her mood. 

“I can’t promise I’ll let you have your way all the time,” he said at last. “I’m pretty sure I won’t mind the rest of it, though we’ll have to do something about your mum. I hate surprise visits.”

“Speak for yourself,” Millicent retorted. “You’re the one who started it by crashing onto my property and interrupting my life. You’ve got a lot to make up for.”

Neville got up, pulled her onto her feet, and kissed her until she forgot exactly why she was complaining.

“I’m going to hold you to that, you know,” he said.


End file.
